


When It Is Said, Some Say

by parcequelle



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Community: femslash11, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Voyager</i> is home, but Kathryn is finding it more difficult than she expected to settle in again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It Is Said, Some Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oparu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/gifts).



Kathryn is lying – prostrate, dramatic – on the immaculate lawn of the reserve directly across from Starfleet Headquarters. Its official title is _The Zefram Cochrane Nature Reserve and Botanical Gardens_ , which she considers rather ill-named given what she knows of Zefram Cochrane, but she wasn’t anywhere near the Alpha Quadrant when they named it, so she supposes her opinion doesn't matter either way. She likes the place, despite the misnomer, perhaps for the fact that it's frequented by Starfleet personnel who are all too terrified by the great (if mildly unhinged, or so the rumours say) Admiral Janeway to dare disturb her.

Kathryn figures that if she’s already been relegated to a career of four walls and memos, of dawns and dusks that never change and the silent, lonely absence of a warp core humming steady beneath her feet, she may as well take advantage of it. How laughingly, bitterly entertaining.

*

"You’re in shock."

This is what she is told by the standard Starfleet-issue counsellor at her routine psych evaluation upon their return. The woman sits across from her, leaning forward, and she is so young and bright and earnest that it's almost parodic.

"You need to give yourself time to adjust, get used to the change. It's difficult to come to terms with finally achieving something you’ve worked towards for so long."

Kathryn is silent for a long time as she watches herself being watched, and then the counsellor asks, "What are you thinking?"

_Where are the Borg when you need them?_

Kathryn says: "It's good to be home."

*

"I'll never understand why they called it that," says a voice from above her. "Somehow I doubt that Zefram Cochrane had much interest in flora." A vaguely person-shaped shadow moves in front of the glare of the sun and Kathryn cracks an eye open against it. The vaguely person-shaped shadow resolves into a vaguely person-shaped halo, and then resolves itself into the smiling (smirking) face of Beverly Crusher, who looks down, waiting.

"I'm off duty," Kathryn tells her, just to cover her bases.

Beverly's eyes move over her body, down and back up, before resettling on her face. "Well," she says. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Why is that?"

"Because your shoes don’t match."

Beverly gestures at the boots, Kathryn raises herself on one elbow to glance down, and – well, there you have it. She must have pulled a boot each from two different pairs in her rush out the door this morning, but at least she managed one right and one left.

Not that she'll say so. "I assure you that's not the case," she huffs instead, and Beverly doesn't say anything more, but her eyes twinkle and she smiles in an entirely unsettling way. Kathryn's treacherous stomach twists as though to prove it, and she shakes her head. "Regardless, I'm sure you didn't come out here to dispense fashion advice, however useful it may be."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, then, are you here to save me from destroying my reputation with my uncaptainly—" she stops.

Goes cold at the realisation of what she's said, wonders for the hundredth time if she will ever feel comfortable occupying this new identity.

Beverly must have noticed, but she is tactful enough to ignore it. “No,” she tells her again, “I’m here to talk to you about those requisition orders for the—”

“The Catalian slime beetles, yes, I remember.” She makes no move to get up, but does raise her hand to further shield her eyes; Beverly remains partially obscured by blotches of yellow, but Kathryn trusts that they will resolve themselves if she squints for long enough. “Why is it you need me to sign a requisition order for beetles, anyhow? I’m not in charge of authorising medical supplies.”

“I know, but you are in charge of doing so when there are delicate diplomatic negotiations going on with the Catalians and the only other means of procuring a sizeable quantity of their most toxic chemicals involves the Ferengi bartender operating out of Deep Space Nine.”

“Ah,” Kathryn says, more sardonically than she intended. “So you’re coming to me because the seal of an admiral bears more weight than the seal of the Head of Starfleet Medical?”

Beverly grins down at her and extends a hand. “In this instance, yes. But only because there are stuffy bureaucratic protocols to be adhered to and that isn’t really my—”

“Yes, yes, I get the picture,” Kathryn grumbles, but she reaches up to accept Beverly’s hand. It is cool and soft and strong, and Kathryn grips it tight as she lifts herself off the ground. She steadies, meets Beverly’s eyes as she draws herself to the almost equal height lent by her (mismatching, but no less trustworthy for it) boots.

There is a long beat of silence, during which Kathryn examines the spots of colour high in Beverly’s cheeks and just has time to wonder at their cause when Beverly clears her throat. “Shall we go somewhere for lunch?”

“Subtle, Doctor Crusher,” Kathryn says gravely, and Beverly shoots her a quick sideways glance as they start to walk. “I mean it. Chakotay would have just come out and demanded to know if I’d eaten. You, at least, win points for creativity.”

“Good,” Beverly says. “I’ll pick the place, then.”

Kathryn makes sure she’s scowling when Beverly grins at her, unashamed, but she falls into step beside her anyway.

*

Kathryn refuses to refer to it as a routine, even in her own mind, but she can’t deny that the arrangement – whatever it is – rings of comfort and ease in a way she can't say of much else. They don’t discuss it; Beverly just seems to know where to find her, to know when it’s appropriate to materialise outside the door of Kathryn’s office, or conference room, or later – after the sixth or seventh time, Kathryn’s lost count – her apartment.

(Kathryn suspects her suspiciously innocent assistant, Lieutenant Rekali, and vows to have a talk with him sometime soon.)

Beverly teases her for her décor, which is at once both cold and showy and not at all to Kathryn’s taste, though how Beverly deduces that based on their casual weekly luncheons is Kathryn’s best guess. After a handful of visits Beverly starts to bring things over to brighten it up: thick rugs and colourful ornaments and a beautiful antique vase, all of them warm and loved and characterful, starkly contrasted with the walls. Kathryn feigns exasperation but doesn’t stop her, largely because she suspects that the process of selecting things brings far more enjoyment to Beverly than it does inconvenience to her. It all makes Beverly smile in a way that captures Kathryn’s attention – and, to her occasional dismay, flutters her heart – and she doesn’t ask where they come from, but the more she gets to know Beverly, the more she believes that they must have belonged to her grandmother.

She treats the items with more care than she ever would her own possessions, and everything around her thrums with Beverly’s presence, the sense of her lingering in the air long after she’s gone.

Before she knows it, Kathryn is calling this foreign place home.

*

She had met Beverly Crusher once before, years earlier, when she undertook a short-term research project at Starfleet Science prior to being assigned the _Al-Batani_. Beverly had just left the Federation’s flagship to head Starfleet Medical, and news of the change filtered its way through to Kathryn even though she and Beverly had little in common professionally and their paths were unlikely to cross.

And Kathryn was right – they didn’t meet in a professional capacity; they met because they got stuck in a turbolift. Beverly was just heading out for a meeting as Kathryn was heading in, and somewhere between the ground floor of Headquarters and Beverly’s destination, something gave an ominous click, then a scrape, then a jarring thud, and then it stopped. Kathryn and Beverly, its only occupants, glanced at each other. Simultaneously tapped their communicators. Sat down to wait.

Kathryn talked about her research into massive compact halo objects, and Beverly talked about her son. He was a teenager serving aboard the _Enterprise_ , and she didn’t say that she missed him but Kathryn could tell from the tone of her voice, from the carefully neutral way she pronounced his name and expounded on his duties, that he was a constant presence in the back of her mind.

The turbolift whirred into motion again after a little over an hour, and when they parted, Beverly shook her hand and thanked her for being good company.

Then, a few weeks later, reports of the _Enterprise_ ’s introduction to the Borg were passed down to all Starfleet captains in a series of delicate top-priority briefings, and Kathryn thought: I hope Beverly’s son is all right. She sent a silent wish of safety off to that boy – to all of them – and turned back to her work.

*

She doubts Beverly remembers. She was the head of Starfleet Medical, the kind of job that pulls double shifts daily, and she was in a position of great responsibility, constantly dealing with new patients, new information, new problems; new roadblocks of bureaucracy. She was busy in a way Kathryn can only fathom now, after _Voyager_ and all that entailed.

She doubts she remembers.

But sometimes, when she’s lying in her darkened room in her Beverly-furnished apartment, listening to the sound of her own breath, she lets herself hope.

*

Alynna Nechayev sends her an encrypted communiqué one night – morning, really; her terminal pings at 0252 hours – and informs her quietly, carefully, confidentially, that a few hours earlier _Voyager_ ran up against a deep space phenomenon and the ship was destroyed.

 _They were lucky_ , Nechayev tells her, but the words register only dimly – _made it to escape pods_ – _tried to prevent_ – _forced to activate self-destruct sequence_ – _n_ _o casualties_.

It is an entirely unnecessary courtesy call and Kathryn is grateful for it, but the compassion in Nechayev’s eyes – so far from what she’d expect from a woman whose hard reputation precedes her – clenches her heart and constricts her throat in a way that makes her gasp, shocked into breathing when she realises she isn’t.

A pause, then: _I’m sorry, Admiral_ , and the message is over. The computer switches back to its Federation logo and Kathryn sits, unmoving, silence ringing around her, but it isn't loud enough to drown out the words in her mind.

She is coding Beverly’s name into the terminal before she even realises she’s doing it, and she almost jumps when the line connects and the screen is replaced by Beverly’s face, eyes bright and hair tousled from sleep. She feels a pang of guilt at having woken her, but Kathryn's expression must hint at her story because after a moment of looking at her, Beverly sharpens, sits up straight and then leans forward, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“What happened?”

“I—” she stops, swallows, furious at herself for not being able to say the words. Then she manages to croak out, “ _Voyager_.” And that is all.

Beverly may not understand, but it doesn’t seem to matter; the moment Kathryn has spoken she is moving away from her chair and saying, “Don't move. I’ll be right there.”

She already has transporter coordinates for Kathryn’s apartment, and she bypasses the front door entirely in favour of materialising in Kathryn’s living room, unapologetically clad in pale pyjamas, fluffy slippers and a coat.

Kathryn realises later that Beverly must have braved the short walk to the transporter banks dressed like that at 0300, but at the time she only notices Beverly’s presence when she feels her hand on her back, gently coaxing her out of her chair and onto the sofa.

She brings her a cup of tea, or perhaps warm milk – Kathryn couldn’t say, she is paying so little attention to the details – and sits beside her, a patient, unthreatening presence, her arm warm and solid across Kathryn’s shoulders, until Kathryn collects herself enough to offer a stilted account of what happened.

“It was my home,” she finally murmurs, and she wonders how her throat can be so scratchy when she hasn’t even cried.

Beverly raises a gentle hand to her cheek and turns her head a fraction, seeking out Kathryn’s gaze, and then she says, fiercely, “It was _part_ of your home,” so fiercely that it comes as enough of a surprise to pierce the haze of Kathryn’s numb disbelief. “But only part. You have people here – your mother and your sister, Admiral Paris, and all of your crew. They’re dispersed but they’re still here.”

The lump in Kathryn’s throat gains strength at the sound of that label, but before she can respond, Beverly tightens her arm around Kathryn’s shoulders and tells her, “And you have me.” It is not a bargaining tool, not an appeal, not a question; it is a statement, indisputable. “We’re your home.” A fact. “I am.”

She doesn’t cry, that night, not while Beverly’s there. But after she leaves, kissing Kathryn’s cheek and tucking a blanket around her on the sofa, telling her gently to try to get some sleep, Kathryn curls her feet into her body and finally cries, and hurts, and grieves.

*

After that, much to Kathryn’s chagrin, Beverly stubbornly refuses to indulge her self-indulgence, ignoring with a flair that is damn near impressive any attempts Kathryn makes to retreat into her own misery. Beverly pushes her clear-eyed crooked-smiled way into what untouched little remains of Kathryn’s life and she stays, unrelenting, until Kathryn agrees to her propositions.

It’s worth it, she supposes, to see Beverly's smile when she does.

Then one day, her comm unit pings and Kathryn goes to answer it – it is Beverly, thankfully (she’s been dealing with the same impossible Vice-Admiral all week long and it’s driving her crazy) – and she’s smiling so widely it almost distorts her face.

Kathryn is instantly suspicious. She hasn’t even opened her mouth to say good morning when Beverly says, entirely too gleefully, “I have a _wonderful_ idea.” She doesn’t wait for Kathryn to ask; Kathryn suspects the woman may know her a little too well. “ _Tennis_.”

And there it is, the reason Kathryn Janeway trusts her gut: it’s usually right. “I’m sorry, tennis?”

“Yes, tennis!” Beverly is very near clapping her hands, and Kathryn sits down at the terminal, not even bothering to hide the dismay on her face.  
“Beverly—”

“Come on,” she wheedles, “it’ll be fun! The _Titan_ ’s docked at Utopia Planitia for routine repairs, so Will and Deanna are coming to visit – it’s the perfect opportunity for us to meet up and have a game! What do you say? They’d love to meet you. I’d love for you to meet them.”

Kathryn rubs at her forehead, which has mysteriously started to throb. “Beverly—”

“Do you have a racquet? I’ll just bring my spare along if you don’t.”

Kathryn sighs, resigning herself to both her literal and figurative headaches. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” She asks instead, and Beverly smiles, bats her eyelashes in a thoroughly ridiculous manner that shouldn't be anywhere near as endearing as it is.

“Not a chance.”

She sighs again, mostly for the drama it affords her. “I suppose I’ll break my racquet out of retirement, then,” she says, and turns off the screen before she can see Beverly’s reaction and give herself entirely away.

*

The Rikers are wonderful people, of course, and she has an obnoxiously good time considering their activity. Even though she and Beverly lose 6-3 4-6 6-4, Kathryn is determined to maintain – until the day she dies, no less – that Will and Deanna’s mental connection grants them an unfair advantage. She tells them as much, mock-solemn, when Will crosses the court to shake her hand, and he breaks into a grin and laughs aloud, full and abandoned, in a way that makes Kathryn yearn a little less.

She falls into step with Deanna as they walk back from the sonic showers to the transport, and when they reach it, several steps ahead of the other two, Deanna turns to her and smiles. “It was lovely to meet you, Kathryn. I’m glad you joined us.”

“So am I,” Kathryn laughs, “even if my old bones never had a chance against you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Beverly says as they come within earshot. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She proceeds to prod her in the arm (rather unceremoniously, Kathryn might add) and then she nods at her and says, “See? Not broken.”

Beverly is smiling, wide and bright, and Kathryn can’t help but mirror it, can’t help admiring the way the afternoon sun only augments the natural glow of her skin. “No,” Kathryn says, but it comes out a murmur, more intimate than she intends. “Not broken.”

When they part ways shortly afterwards, Deanna draws her into a hug and says, “We’ll see each other again,” and there is such a look in her eye and such a certainty to her tone that Kathryn finds herself wishing – suddenly, violently, fervently – that she knew exactly what Deanna was feeling.

*

It makes her preoccupied, and later Beverly asks, “What are you thinking about?”

She is watching her, studying her, and Kathryn turns her head and smiles. “I don’t know,” she says.

But she does, and she has for a while.

*

Kathryn is standing outside on her balcony, nursing a glass of ’68 Chateau Picard (courtesy of Beverly, of course; Jean-Luc is another friend she wants Kathryn to meet on a personal level) as she leans on the railing and watches the early evening crowd bustle below her. They have just finished dinner – tuna casserole, replicated, Kathryn’s latest specialty – and Beverly has offered to recycle the dishes; they probably called up more food than they should have, but the replicator privileges of an Admiral are endless, and they were tired enough from their tennis match to warrant it.

She hears the balcony door whoosh open as Beverly approaches it, then feels more than sees when she steps up beside her, her arm pressing warm against Kathryn’s. They stand for long moments in comfortable silence, savouring the occasional sip, and then Beverly turns her head slightly, just enough for Kathryn to catch the shift of her hair in her periphery. Then she asks quietly, “How are you?”

Reflexively, Kathryn starts to joke, “Oh, you know, I—” but almost as soon as she’s started she changes her mind. This safe, peaceful place is not one for deception; there is no need for it, and she feels she owes Beverly the truth of a serious answer. She looks up and over the busy streets and the clean, sleek buildings, out to the Bay. “I’m fine,” she says, and she means it. She drains her glass and sets it down, twists a wry smile across at Beverly. “I’d rather be a captain, but I’m fine.”

“Well,” Beverly shrugs, “you know, it’s never too late for that. You could always try to get yourself demoted.” Something flickers across her face – inspiration, consideration, decision – before she cocks her head, coy. “Perhaps I could help you with that.”

Kathryn raises an eyebrow, hand flexing around the railing, and holds her gaze. “And how might you do that?” She is flirting, absurdly, terribly, but the hint of giddy excitement that Beverly’s attention has induced in her has been her connection to the world she’s returned to, and it’s something bright and warm and beautiful, something _real_.

And maybe, Kathryn thinks, maybe she’s been mistaken in trying to slot herself back into a life that hasn’t existed for years in way she's imagined. Maybe she’s been looking behind her when she should have been looking here, not even forward but straight ahead, at this woman who is saying, her voice an infectious teasing lilt of ill-disguised glee, “Why don’t I show you?”

This woman, right here.

She feels suddenly ridiculous and theatrical, caught under an unexpected spotlight; she can feel her heart thudding against her ribcage, can feel the anticipation shooting through her veins, and she wants to laugh – wonderfully, crazily, _free_ – for the first time since she returned and set foot on ground she was supposed to want to kiss.

Time suspends itself in the space between their eyes, the evening light lending a contrasting shine to the golden highlights in Beverly’s hair, and when Kathryn opens her mouth she has no idea how much time has passed. “Beverly,” she murmurs, and it is huskier than she intends, but she is unashamed when she sees the way it’s made Beverly’s pupils dilate.

She’s sure there is sound, sure there are people walking down around the streets below them. There must be; she can still see them out the corner of her eye, feel them in the warmth of the breeze, but her consciousness has zeroed in on the nuances of this woman’s face, of the elegant arch of her eyebrow and bow of her lip. Beverly’s eyes are inviting, her posture open, and Kathryn knows that this look has long since crossed the bounds of friendly propriety, but she takes the non-verbal cues as acceptance and doesn’t avert her gaze. Neither does Beverly, and that knowledge curls warm inside her stomach, spreads out and up and tingles down her arms to the tips of her suddenly restless fingers.

Kathryn suspects, with a strangely detached awareness, that they have reached the point of definition in their relationship – for that is what it is, what it has been from the first time Beverly sought her out in a non-professional capacity. And perhaps they’ve been headed here all along and Kathryn was just too distracted to see it, or perhaps it’s crept up on both of them, quiet and unintentional but no less lovely, full and bright, the accidentally ideal answer to questions she wouldn’t have thought to ask.

Fingers soft where they stroke at her jaw, Beverly murmurs, “Is this what you want?”

And Kathryn is nodding before she can think about it and saying, “Yes, oh yes,” and then she’s recognising that her cheeks are sore only because she is smiling so wide, and Beverly is laughing into her mouth as she leans in to kiss her.

It occurs to Kathryn (vaguely, somewhere in a corner of her desire-clouded mind) that people might be able to see them, and she wastes a moment wondering if they ought to move inside – but then Beverly makes a noise, a tiny noise in the back of her throat that accompanies the way she presses Kathryn into the railing, body curved strong and soft and impossibly warm against her, and then Kathryn forgets to think at all.

*

Beverly is tugging practiced hands at Kathryn’s shirt, lips still hard against hers, when she pulls back for a moment to breathe, “I remember, you know.”

Beverly’s moans have encouraged Kathryn’s hands to wander below her camisole, and she pauses a moment, fingers resting still against hot skin, her forehead on Beverly’s. “Remember what?”

“That we met on a broken turbolift at Headquarters—”

“In 2365,” Kathryn finishes, smirking despite her (admittedly feeble) efforts. “Yes, I remember.”

Beverly chuckles, more nervous than Kathryn expects her to be but also not the least bit ashamed. “I’ve been secretly hoping that you would have remembered as well.” She glances up, biting her lip, and Kathryn takes the opportunity to kiss her with appropriate fervour.

“Beverly,” she tells her, when they finally break apart and are both taking in deep breaths of air, “there is _no way in hell_ that I could have forgotten you. Understood?”

She mirrors the smirk, pitch-perfect. “Yes, _sir_.”

And Kathryn, chest bubbling up with irrepressible, near-manic delight, can do nothing but throw her head back and laugh.


End file.
